By: Dana
Summary: Some roads are longer than others.
Characters: Celandine Brandybuck, Moro Burrows (and others)
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of ruffians and violence, angst
Author's Notes: In April, I posted a minor character meme – dreamflower02 asked for Moro Burrows and Celandine Brandybuck, and had expected to get a bit of fluffy flirting. This grew plot on me, and then I found myself writing about a time during the Troubles. I meant to post the first chapter on her birthday (July 1st), but I wasn't feeling very social. I hope she enjoys this, anyhow (she's seen it already, but not the final form).
Happy happy birthday, then. Even if your present is a day late.
Beta thanks to lindelea1 – I never would have got this together, if it hadn't been for her. It really needed the editing, anyhow. Thank you, Lin.
Nominated at the 2007 MEFAs.


Series Index: In a Sunless Year.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Chapter I: An Unexpected Outing

She was the only daughter, and the youngest child, of her immediate family – and that meant that Celandine was, more than not, used to getting her own way.

Her father doted on her, and her mother often did the same. She thought herself secure, and rather safe, with her parents, and with her two older brothers, too. She thought herself secure, still, in the hole of the Buckland, though things hadn't been so very secure, of late. And maybe she could even feel safe with only Moro about, because – well, Moro Burrows was stubborn and stodgy, and an irritant, and above and beyond anything else, utterly a bore. Utterly a bore, and just the sort of respectable young gentlehobbit that her parents longed for her to find some sort of lasting interest in. Yes, she was still too young for any real thoughts of marriage, and her parents liked to go on about that, too, but it was best for all involved that they keep that thought in mind, for some other distant day. And anyhow, her mother had told her once, the betrothal, and the length of the engagement, was near as wondrous as the wedding itself. Her father, though, for all he hoped that she would have the very best match, and find love with whatever hobbit-lad it was that she would marry, was more concerned in making certain that she stayed his little lass as long as was hobbitly possible.

And for all that, and for all she did like it when she got her own way, Celandine had always fancied herself as having a winter wedding, and that was practically unheard of. But winter was her favourite time of year, all bleak and grey and cold, and she wouldn't ever let them take her from the Buckland. No, when she married, if she ever married, she wouldn't be leaving her own home.

Moro wasn't even the sort of hobbit-lad that she fancied, and she didn't think she fancied all that many. It hadn't been fair, that Mentha had been so cruel. But Celandine had danced with Seribran again, even knowing that it probably wasn't all Mentha's fault, and she needn't be so mean, just to spite her.

And anyhow, she did think about what was proper. Moro was probably a perfect example of hobbitly propriety, though Celandine didn't think she liked him much at all. It did seem to be a terribly flighty thing to concern herself with, when she knew well enough the troubles that were going on. She had been there, that day, in the courtyard, when the Ruffians had come, and poor old Regimas had stood against them, though to no good end. They'd thrown him down against the stone, and he'd cracked his head, and Doderic by then had been able to jerk her back through the circle of gathered hobbits, and there had been tears in Celandine's eyes. Regimas had always been kind, and a good tutor, but she had seen the flash of blood, heard the crack of bone.

She let out her breath, in a pained gasp. Moro's hand fluttered at the cloth that was bound about her palm, and with a muttered, 'Oh, pardon me, I don't know my own strength. Did I tie it too tight?', Celandine came back to herself, and where she sat with Moro, in the dank little dell – with the smell of moss in the air, and of night, and the creak and chirp of night-things, moving in the dark. Celandine looked at Moro, and shook her head, then looked at her hand. He had been rebinding the cloth at her hand, the pale strip of cloth that had once been a part of his own shirt. She was certain it had bled through, but it wasn't that they had a good deal of cloth to work with. But there had been another long tear, a ripping, as he took another strip from his own good shirt. Her hand was bound again, and the wet, bloody cloth, had been buried in the mossy dirt. She looked at Moro, and blinked, her eyes adjusting. Her heart was beating too hard, too fast. But she wasn't sure she was as frightened as all that.

'I was just thinking – oh, no. No, it wasn't you, Moro. Forgive me, I wandered too long in my thoughts.' She rubbed her good hand against her brow, and bent her head. Moro sat back, and though she regarded the mossy ground as if it was the most interesting thing she'd ever seen, she could still feel the weight of his own gaze. 'I'm sorry. I'm addled, just like a fool. You must think me quite silly, Moro, for having run out of the Hall...'

'No. Well, perhaps a bit. I must admit, you've been acting rather strange. But why? Can I ask you that, at least?'

'Oh,' she said, and rubbed her brow again. 'I heard about the fire, down at Haysend. I have a friend there, Holly Grovedown, and I was, well, worried. It was a fortnight back, and there hasn't been any real news about what happened, and I even tried to have a talk with Uncle Saradoc, but my mother hardly thought that right. We had thought ourselves safe, Moro. We had thought the Buckland safe. But they came here, anyhow. Poor old Regi. And Holly must be dead, too.'

She had run from the Hall, yes. She hadn't thought that she'd been seen. But she was tired, and sad, and she was worried. She heard them talking about the fire: No, there hadn't been any word, though a handful of survivors had made their way back to Brandy Hall. Celandine had argued with Doderic about it all, and she had argued with Ilberic, too. Simply, they hadn't understood.

'Now, Celandine – '

'Just call me "Cellie", won't you? If we're to die, too, I should grant you that leave.'

'Now, Cellie – '

Celandine smiled, and lifted her bound hand, and patted it against Moro's cheek. She'd gone out in her travelling cloak, and she'd headed south, without much sense about her, leading her pony, Applethorn, along. A storm was coming, and Applethorn was nervous, and Celandine picked her way carefully. Oh, they wouldn't notice she was gone, and just as soon as Applethorn calmed down, they would be on their way down to Haysend. It was getting dark out, already, but Celandine had ridden out at night, before, along with her brothers. 'I just wanted to make sure that Holly had got away. That they hadn't dragged her off to those awful Lockholes – you've heard about them, too – and there wasn't a hobbit amongst the Haysend-survivors that could tell me of her fate. So, I decided, that I would simply have to go on my own...'

She had mounted Applethorn at last, but her pony had spooked not long after that, and she had been knocked from the saddle – and Applethorn had bolted off, into the growing darkness, at the resounding crack of thunder. Her own nerves had been thrown off, too. She remembers having lain there, on the hard ground, the wind knocked from her lungs. Luckily, it hadn't been worse than that. She'd heard her name, then: Moro's voice. He hadn't the same problem with his pony. Her head was hurting, but her hand hurt more. Moro had come from the darkness, had sat with her in the gloom, and he'd bound her hand with a strip of fabric torn from his own fine shirt. We are going to have to take the long way back, he'd said, regarding her with all the insufferable calm of his dark gaze. She understood, after that, they they were out there in the darkness. For a long enough time, the Ruffians hadn't thought to cross the Brandywine. But over the last two months, things had all got so terribly worse – bringing their Rules, and acting as though they had the right to say who and what about what they did.

...the fire at Haysend, and the hobbit survivors led off to the Lockholes. Celandine hoped to find Holly, but she now hardly thought she ever would. No, not when Holly was gone away, perhaps near the other side of the Shire. If she was even still alive. That pained Celandine's heart. Holly'd been a good friend, sweet and kind, though she'd always thought herself rather simple, and concerned herself about not speaking ill about her betters. But she had a kind smile, and a catching laugh. Celandine thought she might cry. It didn't seem right, and it didn't seem fair.

The Ferry might have been shut down, but the Men didn't seem to mind taking the long way around, either. But she had left the Hall, and Moro had followed after her. The Men had been to the south of Bucklebury, and the hobbits had got a start on them and they made a lazy attempt to follow after. It was lucky, for the both of them, that they hadn't been hunted down in a way. It wasn't allowed, for them to be out, and after dark. No, there weren't many Men in the Buckland – no more than a dozen – but there were more than enough to put the fear into the hobbits of Bucklebury, to raise the ire of the Master. More than enough to keep a collar on them, in a figurative sense at least, and drag them out on false charges if they were found wandering out after dark.

Well, it always could have been worse. It could have been raining, too. Other than that ominous rolling in the air, earlier, the crack of thunder, the clouds had settled down, and the night was dark, and still, and rather cold.

When Moro had found her, and after he had bound up the gash on her hand, they had walked together for awhile – just walking together, with Moro leading his pony – though they hadn't taken the direct route, and Celandine wondered about that. At that, she had clutched at Moro's pony, too shaky to walk on her own. It was dark out, and at least the pony had surer feet than hers.

And Moro had been paying more attention than she had, as they had cut south again, into a dark thicket. They didn't see us come this way, he'd said, and she'd understood at last. They had huddled together in the darkness, just their frightened, quiet breath, and the softer breath of Moro's pony. Celandine missed Applethorn. She was hoping the daft, loving thing, had made its way back to the Hall.

But it was dark against dark, and sitting in the dank little dell. The mossy ground was moist against her feet, against her knees. She wanted to press close against Moro, but somehow, she kept that to herself.

She came back to herself, again, to find Moro's warm hand clamped firmly, yet gently, against her mouth – his body was pressed against hers, and she could feel the tremor of his frame. 'Quiet now,' he whispered, a breath against her ear. She shut her mouth, but didn't think she felt quite so terribly afraid as she could have. They weren't very important, in the overall scheme of things. If they were captured, abducted by the Men, she could see no light in their future. They would be taken to the prisons, thrown in with the other hobbits. Or perhaps they would be killed, their bodies left as warnings to the hobbits of the Buckland.

It was a chilling thought, that one, but Celandine couldn't throw it from her mind.

The seconds moved on, like the ticking of some grand clock. She shut her eyes, let herself feel her fear, and pressed back against Moro. She was frightened, she really was, and she didn't want to die. Most especially, she didn't want to die in the company of Moro Burrows. She still thought him an insufferable and irritating bore.

Moro's hand moved, and Celandine let out her breath. A moment later, with the time pounding somewhat more sluggishly in her ears, she whispered, 'Are they gone now, do you think?'

'Yes. I saw them move away, one blot of shadow against the deeper black. But we should sit here, for a while longer. I wouldn't want to meet those fellows on the road.'

A bore, but a cautious one. Her hand stung, and her heart felt heavy. 'Moro Burrows, you put your hand upon me. That was hardly proper.' She moved away from him, picking herself up and then setting herself back down. His chuckle was small, a brittle thing. She smiled, and rubbed her good hand across her eyes. Perhaps he wasn't so terrible as she thought.

'No, I can't say it was.'

'But you might just have saved my life. Or saved us both from a fate worse than death.'

'Well, you were going on and on and on... and your voice had got quite a bit louder... and I didn't think you wanted to bring them down on our hiding place, so I did the only thing I could.' Celandine nodded, and Moro nodded in return. The air was thick and quiet, and she sat, feeling that, if she were any more quiet, she would turn into a part of the landscape, herself. Celandine looked at Moro, watched him for a while. She wondered if he smiled, and only noticed the gleam of his eyes. It was then she noticed how very thirsty was, how dry her throat had become, and she weakly coughed into her hand, and tried to clear her throat. His pony was restless – it snorted and shook its head, and Celandine heard the jingle of the bit, and Celandine realised that she felt the same. She opened her mouth to say something, but shut it instead. She looked at Moro again. 'We'll sit here a while longer, yes. Oh, and we will make it back, Cellie. Even if we have to wait through until the morning, and then trek back to the Hall. We'll make it back, and without much wear, and Aunt Hilda will likely chide us both for having gone off without an escort about. I suppose my mother will have words with us, as well.'

Celandine looked at Moro, for a long moment, then pressed her hand against her mouth, and laughed, muffled though it might be: yes, Aunt Peony would have words with them, and her mother would likely think this the scandal of the season – no, of the entire year. But more importantly, Celandine could almost make out the shape of Moro's smile. Yes, maybe he wasn't as bad as she thought. At least he could make her laugh.

'Well then, the next time we do something so insensible, perhaps we ought to be proper about it. I suppose.' She smiled, and leaned against him – his shoulder was not as broad as his brother Mosco's, not near as broad as Seribran's, but Celandine kissed him on the cheek and then rested, against his warmth. And he was warm, and the summer night had a bitter feeling chill. She shivered, and closed her eyes. Moro, surprisingly, laughed.

'Oh, I am a fool. Here, sit up.' She did, and cloth rustled. Then, she felt his hands on her shoulders – his jacket, she realised, and for the first time in a long enough while, she blushed.

'Oh. Won't you be cold?'

'No, not at all. We Hobbiton hobbits are made of sterner stuff.'

She laughed at that, though she didn't know why. She closed her eyes again, and leaned against him, once more. And it was true, wasn't it, that he was a Hobbiton hobbit? She worried about Holly, and her heart did ache, but Moro had likely witnessed more terrible things, and likely up close. Instead of mentioning that, any of that, she said, 'You are terribly confusing, Master Burrows,' and Moro laughed again.

'Do you mind?' Stiffly, his arm went about her shoulder.

'Oh, no,' she said, and shook her head, adding for good measure, lest he mistake her meaning, 'No, I don't.' She could smell the faint lavender, from the laundering, on his jacket, and the fainter scent of pipeweed about his hair. Celandine smiled to herself and, with Moro's arm about her, let herself drift off to sleep.

She wasn't a very good swimmer. It wasn't for lack of trying. Ilberic and Doderic both, they had a natural grace in the water – and she envied it, she did. She envied Mentha's grace, too. In the spring, before it had all turned so troublesome (but still, after all the troubles had made their start), there'd been the Spring Fair. On a more normal occasion, it would have been the event of the season – but it was mostly the Bucklebury hobbits, and those at Brandy Hall, that gathered to celebrate. She hadn't been thinking much about the queer times, but she did know that something was wrong. And anyhow, there had been the Fair, and after the fair, a small gathering of Brandybuck cousins had decided that they would slip off to the river to swim.

She did love the river, but she rather preferred it when there was a boat between her and it. It was the first time she'd gone swimming since spring, the year before. And it didn't seem fair, that she had nearly drowned herself.

That's what this felt like, waking up. The air was too weighty, so, it couldn't be air. She hardly felt that she was breathing, anyhow. There was something heavy across her belly, and something warm at her cheek. Well, perhaps she wasn't drowning, then. Even when the days were hot, the Brandywine was hardly ever warm.

Celandine did wake, muzzy, and she lay there, moss and grass tickling her nose, something warm and solid before her, the scent of lavender and grass and moss all about, and all she could do was blink the sleep from her eyes. She sat, slowly, and blinked again. Moro had curled himself about her, to keep her warm. She was in his jacket, still. Sleeping, he certainly didn't look like a bore of a Burrows. She touched his cheek, and smiled to herself. Well, he was sleeping, still. Perhaps she should sleep a bit longer. The Sun had hardly risen into the sky.

When she woke again, it was far too sudden, and Celandine bit down on a shriek as she felt herself lifted from the ground.

And she blinked again, gone cold and frightened, as she looked into the squint-eyes of one of the Big Folk. Now, she knew as well as any other hobbit, that the Men never came out when the Sun was in the sky – not anymore, that is, not since Regi's death. But here he was, with two of his fellows with him. Celandine did scream, then, which must have startled Moro awake. Little good it did him. It was all a blur, what happened next. The hand that held her tightened, and she screamed again, and a hand struck her face and it went mostly dark, and she recalled the sound of Moro's voice, shouting, shouting, the desperation and the rage. And then it was completely dark. That was probably when they let her drop to the ground.

chapter two